I thought I had a choice at the intersection of right and left. But I noticed that I could still turn right in the left turn lane. Strange, its like I still had options even after making the decision to turn left, like fate was giving me a second chance to decide, but strange enough I took a left still. I traveled down that left road until it came to dead halt, until there was no more road to travel by car. I had to get out and breath in the air of nothingness, nowhereness. The world seems to stop there, there was no more beyond the road, none that I had ever traveled at least. I donned a backpack full of emergency equipment and began to walk. The mountains were black and white diamonds and the moon was an iridescent rainbow glaze. The road was a milky marble surface where my feet would sink into and the sky was illuminated pink. The road seems endless and I was curious so I kept on going, walking along the road that I had chose since I turned left off the 405 freeway that one Saturday night in August. I could have never predicted that it would have lead me to the edge of my own consciousness and beyond, that where my mind could only imagine was the beginning of a journey i knew nothing about. was there wifi out here in this desolate desert of my imagination? Where would i fill my canteen of water? Would I have thirst out here? Do I still have my senses? It was so silent that I forgot if I could still hear and it seemed like everything was a shift of my mind, that the moment I began to think of something, the air would shift and begun a different place. I realized that I was in slight control of my environment and began to wish up fantastical backdrops for the endless road. Marshmellow bushes and figs the size of sedans. The sky dripped of tamarind juice and I had to just lick the air around me for a taste. Everything around me was sticky and sweet and soon my stomach began to ache for a normal surrounding. No sooner did I think of home did the mountains of candy become track housing and the landscape of milk and honey become suburbia. And now, I’m depressed.
i thought i heard you, screaming in pain, deliberating shedding your feathers to fake a trail for the cat or hawk after your soul. one by one the gray, black and white feathers dropped away from your shaking body, each feather representing minutes, hours, days of your spirit, each feather will its own unique story. like that time when you were learning to fly. all your siblings jumped from the mother nest and soared and glided in the wind. you, shivering in your newly forming ashy wings, so afraid of the unknow, not having a clue what ‘flying’ meant. you heard your mother swaking in the distant and didn’t want to be pushed out of the treetop home, so you leaped and spread your wings and caught the wind. you gasped as you thought you would plumet, but you rode the gales of breeze and flapped and rose high above the tops of trees and buildings.
the little boy threw rocks at you while his mother wasn’t looking and injured your left wing. flying was history and flapping was no longer a painless act. cats began to smell your weakness and hawks preyed upon young hurt things. you would sense them tracking you, soundlessly creeping behind trees, making you paranoid, making your nervous for life, of death. the cat hissed and lunged and you let go of a feather. you’d hope that the cat would lick the feather like a popsicle, satisfiying the need to prey, but the appetite just build and began to take a form of a lion, a beast with fangs, the cat was no longer a mere cat, but a raging ravenous feline. her teeth bore and hissed as the pigeon played mind games. she wished to feed, to feast and this pathetic pigeon was desperately molting.
my tire was flat. we caught a bus back and walked the bikes back to Walmart where I could pick up new tubes and this floresant green gel that coats the inside of your tires. i picked up a black pigeon feather. i found another and another and another. every twenty feet or so i picked up beautiful bird feathers.
the pigeon desperate for life, hobbled through the grass, hiding behind a tree stump, a shrub, but the cat was relentless. eventually the cat had its feast, and i took home the seven pigeon feathers and made a mobile for my car. the sacrifice was made with the life of a pigeon, and i am honoring its bird life with this letter.
she stepped gingerly on the edge of her own consciousness. she could have in fact been sleeping, or even a very daring trance-like state that she knew she shouldn’t place herself in. she wanted to see if indeed she could hypnotize herself with an optical illusion pendant that she had painted. she didn’t realize that the words she slowly and deliberately repeated to herself while gazing intensely at the pendant, that she might just drifted into the realm of unknowingness.
the world around her was hazy, foggy and quite cold. she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. she saw in the distance a huge mountain of books. it was as if all the books she had ever read, or though of reading, were building a ladder up to the heavens. they formed a staircase, and she stepped upon it. the bookcase was slightly unstable, and swayed side to side. the higher she climbed, the more she could see the landscape of her consciousness. she saw small pockets of understanding, hate, pity, confusion, and bliss. she saw moments in her past, clear and defined, and moments in her future, fuzzy and blurred in the distance.
the highest structure in the town was a billowing metal pipe structure of smoke and sendiment. the pollutions from the cavitity spill out into the clouds, causing the clouds of Moltov to hang heavy with carcenogens, causing illness and birth defeat that the oil industry never addressed. the people for hundreds of years have existed in a society where oil was needed to run the transportation and machinery, because there wasn’t very many options for the otherwise dready and rainy weather of Moltov.
third child clung will all its hand might onto the feathers of birdlady, as they soared and climbed higher and higher into the air, until they landed on the silver grating that lined the cavitity. third child delicately unstadled from birdlady’s back and took a look around. the view was stomach lurching long down to the ground. if birdlady so much as flapped her feathers, third child might have teetered off the grating and into the unknown world of death and dying. child clung onto the metal rail handling. the smoke was thicker up here, almost as if the breathing air felt like carbon monoxide. it was tight and heavy, and no one wants the truth when they are dying, and this place made third child feel so hopeless against its new found fight of the oil industry.
why should my city die in order for other’s to drive cars?
no one seemed to care that third child wasn’t in its bed in the morning. At 2AM, third child felt an overwhelming need to walk around the town. Maybe to get fresh air, maybe to clear a wandering mind, maybe to explore the Sector, as the townspeople referred to their local oil refinery. Many people based their livelihoods off the oil industry, with an equal amount of distaste for what oil had done, and does, to the current health of the individuals living in Motav.
third child hobbled down the main street, towards the steaming towers of the Sector. It began to hum, “Pies and mud, pies and mud, flavored with dirt, flavored in earth. Pies and mud, muddy pies, flavored with time, flavored with hurt.” It was old nursery rhythm that mother darling once sang to her childs. The tune soothed third child, and gave confidence to the crippled child. It was dark, and the town stood still, and if one listened closely, they could hear the soft panting of third’s breath. Third’s tongue was covered in soot, and it spat on the ground. The spit dribbled down third’s chin, and pooled on the ground.
Soon third stood in front of a huge humming metal fence. It was electrified and third couldn’t climb it with electrocuting itself. Besides third’s hand arms weren’t strong enough to support its body. third stooped on the ground, touching the ground with its fingers. The dirt seems soft enough to dig through, and third estimated it had 2 hours to dig a hole to wiggle through. It didn’t even know why it had to go into the Sector, only that in this half-state of waking, it knew that there were answers in the Sectors, answers for third, and answers for Motav.
the room began to buzz before people even began to fill it up, and before the dancing, mingling, and trading of business cards had even begun. the walls hummed in and out, and before the walls began to shake and shiver, a secret ritual was taking place in the secret of the night. a gentle humming, a whisphered melodic prayer that gently brushed the tongue to the top of the mouth, a hushed wishing. the girl shook her head, walked boldly out to the party, the people walking back and forth, just trying to not be bored, trying to be as Asian American as possible. the room felt quite Asian, quite business, and maybe for everyone, it is business. as paint mixed in with wood, and the distractions of the people led me fall deeper and deeper within myself, i smeared pigment and ink into messy spirals. near the bathroom, through the red glass, was an installation of a human skull and candles. with witches and the cosmos on my mind, to approach an object like a skull with red colored eyes, defines an innate desire to be scared of evil. there is a sense that everything. even death is inevitable, that it is a mere passing between worlds, that souls are wanderers like the heart is. the feelings of love, and lust, pervades the mind, and fogs up the clear window of consciousness that one is constantly in development over time, and space, and practice. tricks, and treats. is candy a sin?
The balcony now has patio furniture on it. The knarled tree that I would daily climb to break into my own home, gone. The blinds looked vaguely the same and I wonder if Ms Ho charged the other inhabitants an extrobidant fifty dollars per blind. We probably protested and refused to pay. She was a horrid landlady and worse off she would barge into the apartment without ringing the doorbell or emailing us the night before. She would just let herself in as if there wasn’t a chance that I would be eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the nude. I stood in the kitchen archway and my mouth dropped down to the ground. I bend down and scooped it up and said… hello to the intruder. There are no intruders when you never really know who your roommates would bring down. I once invited my friend to stay over, probably forgetting to tell them, and in the morning he sat at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee while I showered. No one even flinched when they saw him. The balcony didn’t look soot covered, it didn’t look ignored with garage continously spilling off the sides and into the streets. Maybe the lady guard that came and knocked on our door had some peace of mind now with the new inhabitants people who have patio furniture. You know that they say, if you have patio furniture, you probably have other furniture on the inside.